


Ballerina Ballerina

by escailyy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ballet, Gen, because book meg is fun to write, book meg, book sorelli, hard work, meg is her apprentice, sorelli is a badass, the secret life of ballerinas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escailyy/pseuds/escailyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what if there had been another mentor behind the scenes during the events leading to the performance of Don Juan?, this time a woman, while Christine was off being taught how to sing like an angel, what if Meg was taken under the wing of someone as dedicated to dancing as Erik was to music?. </p>
<p>"you shouldn't be pushing her like that Sorelli" the voice whispered in the dark of her dressing room, but Isabellina held her head high and snorted "if it could guarantee your protege's voice would be the best in the land in just a day" she challenged "wouldn't you too.. be willing to pour molten glass down her throat?" the voice didn't answer and the Prima Ballerina smiled "thought so"<br/>this work is entirely meg centric</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballerina Ballerina

**Author's Note:**

> here is a small drabble on a scene that popped up in my mind after watching a Bunheads marathon and the beginning of black swan (hated the movie sorry), I had this Phantom of The Opera assignment for English last week and well, take all that put it in a blender with my dance obsessed older sister and what do you get?, me taking out my frustrations on fanfiction.
> 
> Partially inspired by Sorelli scolding Meg and the chorus girls's gossip in Leroux's book, I imagine her to be a Salma Hayek look-alike.  
> this is all Meg Centric

"again" Isabellina's voice cuts trough the air like a knife making me wince.

And even tough my feet are bleeding and my joints hurt from repeating movements over and over since daybreak.

I obey.

Prima Isabellina Sorelli, better known as La Sorelli is the best of her kind, and she demands sacrifice, if I am to be her apprentice.

A beautiful dancer and singer, epitome of a perfect performer.

Still with her hands balled into fists and unsmiling lips, she proceeds to show me the choreography violently, counting the beats and numbering her every breath, making every move seem effortless and graceful.

But It's behind her eyes, cold and uncaring, that I see everything it took her to achieve perfection in life. the broken slippers and bloody toes, the sweat and tears she'd had to shed, rehearsing since childhood.

I feel the warm trickle of blood start to caress my toes for the long time I've been in pointe, but like her, I don't complain, and remain upright, pirouette after pirouette, despite the pain and exhaustion

"An opera house is no place of a dancer like you Margarita" Isabellina's voice is sharp, honest, demanding, but fair, so much like my mother who sleeps somewhere in the upper rooms, her Spanish accent resounding trough the walls of the empty mirrored rehearsal room "you too smart for your career's own good, life is a popularity contest niña, and they" she motioned to the door with her hand as tough she where signaling an invisible audience "ellos quieren a una ingenua, they want a naive, innocent doe eyed beauty and you can't compete with that, con ojos too smart, that's why they overlook you Margarita" she hisses angry "square your shoulders and smile more, if this is torture they must not know it"

"It is not torture, this makes me happy, I am a dancer, therefore dancing will never be torture" I lie in between panting breaths, just like she ordered me to do the first time she taught me how to do a triple Sissonne, I breathe and count the beats she hums around the room, another jette, and leap, the sweat coating my inky black hair, and probably adding a little color to my pale skin, while La Sorelli continues.

"See this is what I mean, you pick up things fast, what French patron has use for a Ballerina smart enough to know she doesn't have to spread her legs?" Isabellina continues with a frown stopping her hum long enough to do a very complicated Arabesque like pirouette and motioning for me to recreate it, I can feel my head about to explode, along with my heart and lungs, it literally has been all night, non stop, but my new mentor is relentless "Yet don't worry querida niña, I will make you into the best, you will be the diamond mas brillante, that this Opera has seen and you will not lose your body or heart in the process, this I promise" her hand immediately falls to her stomach and she curses in Spanish.

Her eyes turn against me glaring daggers, hateful and icy, knowing the reason why she chose me above the others, it was because I was the one that asked, I was the only one clever enough to figure out why she was going to retire in three months, even when for all intents and purposes La Sorelli was still in her prime.

So taking me under her wing was her revenge, because I didn't turn her in, because I kept her secret, she saw the one thing I wanted most, and decided she would show me exactly why it wasn't worth to have the world at my dancing feet, promising that once she was done, I would wish to be ignored in the chorus.

"your stomach will cramp, and your feet will bleed, your body will be like clay for the audience to see, and they will cheer every time it feels as tough your bones are sawing trough your flesh, ignoring how much it burns and pains for you" La Sorelli had said in anger, the moment I had mentioned how much I wish I where in her place at the front of the audience "but in the time from now on, until I retire, I will train you to be as perfect as me" then she had stormed out of the room "we have three months Margarita, be ready to rehearse"

tiredly I attempt the Arabesque, just in the way she did, making my body stretch reminiscent of a willow, reaching for the sun with grace, but in the last moment, the pain in my feet becomes too much and they give in, making me fall to the bloodstained ground in a heap, long before I can try her pirouette.

"I believe your body had enough for the night, rest your feet in cool water for some time and they will stop bleeding" Isabellina doesn't even bat an eyelash and I nod obediently, she circles me with pride, reminiscent of a peacock flaunting her feathers, and even when I know she is with a child I can't help but admire her devotion to our art, gently I take off my pointe shoes under her watchful eye, knowing that the breaking in of the new soles is what probably caused my toes to bleed, it isn't my fault, or my feet's, I remind myself, the shoes where the problem.

"It hurts" I finally admit in a whisper of pain, looking up to meet her eyes with my black ones, my sheer determination showing trough them, "But I will do better tomorrow, I promise"

Sorelli nods and circles me once again, making notes on the various spots of my body that will be sore in the morning and telling me exactly what ointments will make them better, she knows I love dancing as much as she does, this is why she doesn't comment on my mistake, or my now stained pointe shoes, too focused on the practicality to feel emotion associated with the heart.

Finally after I have warped my feet in gauze and look appropriately apologetic, she sighs and pushes a box into my hands "We are dancers Meg, our bodies are just vessels for music to express itself, we don't cry, or whimper or get tired, unlike other performers, we are not allowed to have emotions, a Prima Ballerina doesn't have the luxury of a voice, because most of the time, our parts are mute, so our feet become our only escape" opening the box I find a small but beautiful silver tiara, my red hands making a bright contrast against the sparkling diamonds and trough the tears falling down my eyes because of how much every single part of my body hurts, I nod again "ours is the universal language nobody needs to learn yet everyone understands, secret as it is known, we are mute but not voiceless, be it here or somewhere else, you may rest assured that if you dance, people will understand what you are feeling, en tu corazon, this is what makes the sacrifice worth it"

"Do you think it will ever be worth it?" I mumble in a sob massaging poorly my arms and legs to get the blood flowing back to the places I was numb, pale and sickly, like my fingers, the exertion of an entire night pushing my limits now gave my skin a painful red tinge I would rather ignore, I stare at one of the mirrors, my black hair and black eyes making me no batter looking than any other ballet rat.

"truthfully no" Isabellina admits her hand once again back to her belly "But at your age, Senior Sergei said those words to me, and they used to help me sleep at night" she says with a shrug, as tough her words should be offering consolation, I sigh and again my hands wrap themselves around the tiara in the box she just put in my hands "Dreams always have a price Margarita, the bigger the dream is, the higher the cost" She continues and then turns to leave, her tall long legged figure reflecting in he mirrors of the room like an avenging angel "that tiara was a gift from him, my mentor, Senior Sergei on my first perfect rehearsal, you did good tonight, so now it's yours" she says before she leaves me to my own thoughts.

And I can't help but feel betrayed by my art, she is right, dreams have a price, a price of long hours and pain and tears, I chose to pay it myself the moment I beheld my first ballet, but why should it take me to the limit of resistance?, dance was love and joy and fun, why was it turning it's back on me and causing me to cry tears of blood to achieve what I wanted most?.

The mirror before me shows me a small red faced ballerina sitting in a floor specked with sweat and sprinkles of blood, but my determination, is stronger, so I lift Isabellina's gift to my head and fix it perfectly on the top of my slack and limp hair, with a force I do not own, I make an effort to get up from the floor, and tough it hurts my arms, I square my shoulders to look at the girl in the mirror right in the eye.

There, I see a ballerina with a smile in her mouth and determination in her eyes, this is who the audience will see, no matter what happens, I am mute, but trough my dance, people will know who I am, I will be beautiful in their eyes, my feet will speak for me.

In the mirror I see who I will become one day.

The tiara sparkles in my hair, reminding me that soon.

I'll become heiress to a throne of beauty, blood and sacrifice.

**Author's Note:**

> An: I chose to make Sorelli Spanish on a whim, since she is a Prima Ballerina I imagined her to be sophisticated but really, really driven and ambitious, note how she calls Meg, Margarita and makes her work her ass off... I mention Meg's feet so much because..well if you want to see something horrible, go ahead and google the feet of dancers and you will have nightmares of broken toes all night...and for those who are wondering about it, yes she is pregnant with Phillipe DeChagny's love child baby...
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Kokoshnik tiara: a type of russian headpiece used by royalty
> 
> Ellos quieren una ingenua: they want an ingenue
> 
> con ojos: with eyes
> 
> querida niña: dear child
> 
> mas brillante: most brilliant
> 
> en tu corazon: in your heart
> 
> Ps: should I continue?


End file.
